


An Angel's Test

by Laur



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexuality Spectrum, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Don't copy to another site, First Time, Happy Ending, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Love Confessions, M/M, Near Death Experiences, POV Alternating, Praise Kink, Pre-Apocalypse, Scars, Sex Positive, Suspense, plot heavy, there's an original character but they're barely in this don't worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24109609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laur/pseuds/Laur
Summary: One year before the Antichrist is born, the archangels discover that Aziraphale has been lying about his flaming sword and send him on a mission to prove himself. Crowley isn't so sure it's a test Aziraphale is meant to pass.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 93
Kudos: 230
Collections: Hurt Aziraphale





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

Six thousand years ago, the Celestial Summoning Department placed an order to end the world with a shipping company that didn’t exist yet. The decision came after a cost-benefit analysis of Armageddon determined that the most economical option was to outsource the summoning of the Four Horsemen.

Since there wasn’t much else for the Summoning Department to summon, the department was nearly completely dissolved. Only one angel was kept on.

This angel, named Imamiel, has been eagerly awaiting today for the past 5988 years.

“Just dial 9 to connect to Earth,” Heaven’s Telephone Operator explains, passing over the handset.

“I remember,” says Imamiel, gripping the handset gingerly. In their other hand is a piece of paper with a telephone number and a list of items with corresponding GPS coordinates. “I took a workshop a few decades ago.”

Imamiel inputs the telephone number carefully and brings the handset to their ear. They jump a little when the line begins to ring.

“ _International Express_ ,” a gruff voice crackles in greeting. “ _Jerry speaking, how can I help you?_ ”

How polite! Imamiel breaks into a smile. “Hello, Jerry. I am calling to confirm an order due in precisely twelve years.”

“ _Alright, what’s your order number?”_

Imamiel recites the number on the paper slowly and clearly. They have it memorized, but it’s reassuring to have it written out anyway. It reads 276-225-9773 which, coincidentally, spells a very amusing word in T9 predictive text*.

“ _Looks like we’ve got a crown being shipped to Sussex, a set of weighing scales being sent to Iowa, a flaming sword being sent to—”_

“Excuse me, did you say a _flaming_ sword?”

“ _That’s what it says here_.”

“That’s not right,” Imamiel muses. This is a very important job, and they do not want to mess it up. “Perhaps I had best come take a look.”

Imamiel brings the mix-up to the Archangel Michael’s attention.

“There’s still a Heavenly Mark on it,” they point out, holding out the image of the sword as proof.

The Archangel Michael takes the image and peers at the Mark. Their expression does not change, but the air crackles with their irritation. “Commendable work. You may go now.”

Michael knows that Mark and the Principality it belongs to.

Gabriel is standing in front of the immense window that frames Earth’s sprawling buildings below. His arms are crossed, one hand pressed against his lips, contemplative. Michael steps up beside him. “Have you spoken to Aziraphale recently?”

“Of course. We met in person two centuries ago.”

“Did he ever mention anything about the flaming sword he’d been issued?”

Gabriel turns to face them, brow furrowed. “No. Why would he?”

Michael shows him the photo. “The Summoning Department was surprised to find this in the package to be delivered to War.”

Gabriel stares at the image for a moment before his eyes alight with recognition. He looks up at Michael. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for why Aziraphale hasn’t reported it.”

“Of course,” Michael agrees easily. “Perhaps we just need to give him the opportunity to tell us the truth. If he doesn’t, well… That will be a truth in and of itself.”

“He has been on Earth a long time.” Gabriel’s fingers tap against his lips. “The Antichrist will soon be born and the Great War is right around the corner. Maybe we should keep this…discrete. For the sake of morale.”

“Yes, of course. You don’t mind if I use back channels, do you?”

. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *It spells "apocalypse"


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale’s shop has been open for only half an hour when the bell over the door jingles a merry warning. He puts down his mug of cocoa with a sigh and hurries to the main room. It’s always best that he supervise whatever customer has decided to come rifle through his books.

“Good morning, can—” He comes to a stop at the sight of Gabriel stepping inside, and his heart rate spikes when Michael follows him in.

Oh, drat, what has he done to displease them _now_?

There are no humans in the shop, but Aziraphale takes the precaution of inviting the archangels into his back room anyway, out of sight of the windows. “Michael. Gabriel. What an unexpected pleasure. How may I be of assistance?”

Gabriel smiles at him. Michael’s lips compress in a way that may, charitably, be called friendly.

“We have a very important task for you, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, peering around the book shop with thinly-veiled disgust. “It’s an exciting job, I think you’ll like it.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale glances between them, dread pooling in his gut. He's not overly fond of _exciting jobs_. That's more Crowley's thing. “What is it?”

Gabriel retrieves a folder from his jacket. “Michael recently discovered a pocket on Earth nearby with some, uh, suspicious activity.”

“Suspicious?”

“Hellish.” Gabriel hands Aziraphale the folder. “Spikes of demonic energy. Humans going missing. That sort of thing.”

“Goodness!” Aziraphale flips through the small stack of pages. There is a map with a circle off the coast of the Isle of Man, a page with directions, and a chart showing demonic levels in the area over time. “This is certainly alarming.”

“We don’t know much, so we thought we’d put our best Earth representative on it.”

 _I’m your only Earth representative_ , Aziraphale thinks.

“We also thought this would be a good training opportunity for you,” Michael intones. “Your platoon will need a competent, loyal, and honest leader.”

His collar seems to have transformed into a boa constrictor. “My platoon?”

“Armageddon will soon be upon us, Aziraphale,” Michael says. “We need every angel at their best.”

His already beleaguered heart nearly stops. “Has it…it hasn’t it started yet, has it?”

“Not yet,” Gabriel assures him, flashing a smile. “You’ve still got time to get yourself in shape. I've got a great exercise regime you should try.”

Aziraphale gives a strained laugh that could mean anything from _you're too kind_ to _go fuck yourself_. This is too much information for Aziraphale to cope with while his superiors hover over him. “Any idea…how much time?”

“Don’t worry about that right now,” Gabriel says, which makes him worry even more.

“Right, of course, sorry. So, I’m meant to…collect intel about this source of nefarious power?”

“Destroy it,” Michael says flatly, eyes boring into him. “You’ll want your flaming sword for this, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s stomach drops, somehow, even further. He clears his throat. “D-destroy it? Really?”

“Well, you’re not going to be meeting for a nice chat,” Gabriel laughs. “Is that a problem?”

Aziraphale squeezes his hands together. “No, no. It’s only, I haven’t had to kill anything during my time on Earth. I’ve always found that a peaceful resolution is –”

“This is a creature from Hell. There will be no peaceful resolution.”

“Michael’s right, Aziraphale. You are up to the task, aren’t you?”

Swallowing hard, Aziraphale nods. You don’t say no to the archangels. “Is there a timeline for this job?”

“Well, since you should have everything you need – map, directions…flaming sword – you can leave right away, so—” Gabriel looks at his wrist. “Let’s say I’ll be expecting your report in three days.”

“Three—? Certainly. Not a problem at all. Will do. You’ll have my report in three days.”

Michael is still staring at him. Gabriel appears oddly disappointed. “Any other questions for us, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale manipulates his lips into what he hopes is a decent approximation of a smile. “No, your instructions are quite clear.”

Gabriel slaps a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Good. Good.” He gives Aziraphale a little shake that rattles his teeth, then walks past him towards the front door.

“Godspeed, Aziraphale,” Michael says, and follows.

. . .

The first thing Aziraphale does is pick his figurative guts off the floor and call Crowley.

“Miss me already? What is it, did you forget—”

“We need to talk,” Aziraphale interrupts. “Can you come over?”

Crowley is there fifteen minutes later, sauntering in with artfully tousled hair and a wrinkled nose. “ _Poo-wee,_ it reeks in here.”

“ _Excuse_ me—”

“Relax, I know it’s not you. Lemme guess: Gabriel?”

Aziraphale ushers him into the back room. “And Michael.”

“That sounds serious.”

“Listen, do you know of a – a concentration of demonic activity? Up North?”

Crowley sprawls out on Aziraphale’s ancient sofa. “Manchester?”

“No, no, more north.”

“Haven’t heard of anything.”

Aziraphale glares at him sceptically.

“I’m not lying! As far as I know, I’m the only concentration of demonic activity. Care to be more specific?”

With a sigh, Aziraphale sits at his desk and pulls out the map from the folder Gabriel gave him. He passes it to Crowley. “Apparently, there have been spikes of infernal energy all over there. Gabriel and Michael want me to…take care of it.”

Crowley frowns at the map, then at Aziraphale. “Take care of it?”

“Er, destroy it, was the exact order. My flaming sword may have been mentioned.”

Crowley’s eyebrows rise. He lays the map beside him on the sofa. “The flaming sword you gave away?”

It’s a sore subject. “Yes, yes, don’t rub it in.”

“Aziraphale. Did you _tell_ them you gave it away?”

Aziraphale looks down at his clasped hands. “They didn’t ask… Technically.” He peeks up.

Crowley’s mouth drops open. “Unbelievable.”

“Well, I don’t see what the big deal is! I’ll just go without it. I’ve never had to use it before.”

Crowley takes off his sunglasses and leans forward. His eyes burn like miniature suns. “You’ve never had to destroy a hotspot of demonic activity before!”

“Destroy is such a vague word. You and I managed to come to an Arrangement just fine over a pot of tea.”

“You’re mad. I’m coming with you.”

Aziraphale stands. “You can’t!”

Crowley stands, too. “Why not?”

“This is some sort of test, I just know it.” Skirting around Crowley, Aziraphale heads for the stairs. He needs to pack. “Michael never comes to Earth unless it’s something important.”

Crowley follows him. “If it’s important then you can use backup. As a demon, I’m pretty well versed in demonic activity!”

“I only asked you here for information, my dear.” He looks around his upstairs room. Where did he put his travelling bag? “I need to do this alone.”

Lurking in the doorway, Crowley vibrates with exasperation. His sunglasses are back on. “You don’t even have a weapon!”

The bag is peeking out from under a pile of newspapers. Aziraphale goes to dig it up and pauses. “Would you be able to lend me one?”

“Angel. I don’t have any weapons. I came to you for holy water, remember?” Crowley slithers in between Aziraphale and the bag. “Don’t you have your old armor in here somewhere? You keep everything else.”

“Goodness, of course not! I got rid of that beastly thing the soonest I could. Now, get out of the way, dear, I need to get ready.” Glowering, Crowley steps aside. Aziraphale bends to remove the newspapers.

“What about if I give you a lift?”

“It’s kind of you to offer—”

“Not kind.”

“—but I’ll take the train, thank you.” He places the stack onto the rarely-used bed.

“C’mon, I can get you there in half the time!”

Aziraphale balks at the very thought. “That is precisely why I will take the train.”

“What’s your plan then? Introduce yourself, say ‘begone foul fiend’, and be done with it?”

Aziraphale sighs. He doesn’t want his friend and adversary to worry, not that Crowley would ever admit to the sentiment, but Aziraphale isn’t sure how to convince him that he’ll be fine. They have a bit of an unspoken tradition of Aziraphale getting into spots of trouble and Crowley getting him out. Despite his little quirks, Aziraphale isn’t as delicate as all that. “I do actually know how to smite a demon, Crowley.”

“Fine. Fine.” Crowley raises his hands in defeat. “The high and mighty angel works alone. No feathers off my wings.”

“Come now—” Aziraphale says, but Crowley is already halfway down the stairs. He sighs and grabs his bag. Crowley just doesn’t understand the pressure he’s under; Heaven has such high performance expectations. With a project like this, Aziraphale has to play by the book, and that means no Arrangement and no tag-along demons.

. . .

Crowley clatters down the stairs, gritting his teeth. Why are angels such _stubborn_ creatures?

This is a test, Aziraphale said. Crowley knows all about tests. As far as he’s concerned, tests were made for cheating.

His eye catches on the map, lying on the sofa. He glances at the stairs to make sure the coast is clear, then takes out his mobile phone. Hunching over the map, he takes a picture. He straightens as Aziraphale comes trotting into the room.

“Oh, I thought you’d left.”

Crowley passes him the map. “When do you expect to be back? Just so I know how long of a reprieve I get.”

Aziraphale clucks at him. “No more than a couple days, I imagine.” He slides the map into the folder on his desk, then tucks the folder into his bag.

Damn. He didn’t check the folder.

“I’ll be sure to give your shop tons of good Yelp reviews.”

“Don’t be nasty.”

Despite himself, Crowley smiles, allowing himself to be chivvied out the door. On the front steps, he digs in his heels and turns around. “Angel.” He struggles for a second. As a demon, there’s only so much he can say. Only so much Aziraphale is willing to hear. “Don’t be an idiot, alright?”

“I shall do my very best,” Aziraphale says dryly, and shuts the door between them.

With a grin, Crowley turns and steps onto the pavement. His Bentley is waiting for him, and he slips his phone out of his pocket as he gets in. He starts the engine and pulls into traffic, the line ringing several times before connecting.

“ _Aye_?”

“Shadwell. I need you to look into something for me.”

. . .

After getting everything in order, Aziraphale locks up the shop and, since the weather is nice, walks to the train station. Once he’s onboard, he attempts to read for half an hour, but when he only manages to get through two pages and doesn’t remember a single word, he gives up and pulls out the folder.

It really doesn’t contain much information, which is disconcerting. From what he can glean of the short report, the infernal aura in the area has been more or less constant for years, with spikes coinciding with the disappearance of entire boats of humans. A creature capable of that would have to be quite powerful, and yet nothing in the text gives any hint as to its age or size or breed of hellish creature. It could be an aquatic hellhound for all he knows.

Heaven is usually more thorough with their background information, but perhaps they want him to employ some creativity, some initiative. He imagines these would be good qualities for the leader of a platoon of angels. Not that he has any particular desire to lead a platoon, an honour though it is. Of course, he must play his part in the Great War, when Heaven will finally triumph over Hell. It will be lovely, obviously. No more Evil, no more pain, no more sin, no more…demons.

He resolves to do some more research when he arrives before heading for the thing. Perhaps, if he knows the demon’s motivations, it can be reasoned with.

. . .

In a cheap café, a demon and a witchfinder sit across from each other, coffee steam curling in the air between them.

“I’m telling ye, Your Honour, I went through the files an’ there hasn’t been a witch burning there in centuries.”

Crowley flips a page in his newspaper without reading it. “Anything _other_ than witch burnings? _Anything_ strange?”

“We’re a witchfinder army, sir, we’re not much interested in things other than witches…”

Folding down the top of his newspaper, Crowley gives Shadwell a cool stare. Shadwell chuckles nervously.

“Well, there’s always rumours in those parts ah men disappearin’ at sea, but that’s sirens, sir, not witches.”

“Sirens?”

“Aye. Half bird, half wummun, that sings sailors to their deaths. Or wazzit half fish, half wummun – maybe that’s mermaids.”

Crowley lays down the newspaper. “Do you have any evidence of these creatures?”

“Ah, no. They’re just myths, sir.”

Crossing his arms, Crowley leans back. “So you believe in witches and demons but draw the line at mermaids?”

Shadwell opens his mouth and closes it again.

“Right.” Crowley folds his newspaper and stands.

“The yearly dues, sir!”

“I’ll drop them off Saturday,” he throws over his shoulder. “Maybe Sunday.”

Sliding into the Bentley, he growls. He was hoping to avoid this, but if Shadwell has nothing then he has no choice. He pushes the radio’s power button as he drives away.

“ _It ain't much I'm asking, if you want_ – _HELLO CROWLEY_.”

“Uh, hi, is Dagon around? You know, Lord of the Files?”

“ _ONE MOMENT_.”

“Thanks.”

The line switches to some truly terrible hold music, one of Crowley’s better ideas, though he’s regretting it at the moment. It doesn’t even make sense, since he’s calling through his _radio_.

“ _WHAT IS IT, CROWLEY?”_

“Hey, Dagon, I’m about to pop down for a spot of research for a super evil project I’m working on. Could you get out a file for me?”

. . .

“What do you mean no boats are available?” Aziraphale asks. “I can see a dozen docked just there.”

The boat attendant doesn’t even glance in the direction Aziraphale is pointing. “Those are for tours only, sir. I could book a tour for you instead, if you want.”

“No. Thank you.” Aziraphale breathes in deeply. “I really must get here.” He shows the map again, pointing to the circle in the middle of the water.

“None of the tours go out that way.”

“Which was why I was hoping to book a private guide.”

“None of the skippers will go there, sir. You could try the Fisher Cruise.”

“I have!” Aziraphale very deliberately does not stomp his foot. “They won’t take me either. Are you certain I can’t rent one of these vessels alone?”

“We don’t do that, sir.”

Aziraphale smiles thinly, thanks the attendant for his time, and leaves the queue of tourists. He’s at somewhat of a loss. Since stepping off the train, Aziraphale has been unable to find a single boating company that will take him to the demonic hotspot. Not that he intends on bringing a human along, but if he could at least get one of them to show him how these motorized vessels function then he could drop the human off and go alone.

He can hardly blame them, really. From what he has picked up from the locals, the superstitions of the area are deeply ingrained. They’ve come up with all sorts of fanciful stories of man-eating mermaids, which he supposes makes sense considering in the past century the last three boats to venture in that area never returned. He’s honestly surprised he wasn’t assigned this project earlier.

Walking down the street in search of another boating company, his attention is caught by an antique book shop, which boasts a number of intriguing tomes in its windows. His pace slows and he bites his lip. He pulls out his pocket watch. It’s still early in the day, he has time for a quick peek. And perhaps he’ll be able to learn more about what he’ll be up against.

Stepping inside, he pauses in the doorway to close his eyes and inhale, the comforting smell of books momentarily transporting him back to his own shop. Smiling, he meanders through the shelves, scanning authors and titles. The selection is modest, but he stops in the mythology section and pulls out a text that appears promising.

His eyes are pulled to sketches of beautiful women, basking on rocks in the middle of the sea, tempting sailors with their bodies and songs. So, it’s _that_ kind of demonic activity then. That isn’t so challenging to deal with; the Lust demons are never much interested in putting up a real fight.

“Excuse me,” says an American voice.

He turns to find a young woman in a stylish tartan coat looking at him intently. “Yes, dear girl. How can I help you?”

She tilts her head and squints at the book he’s holding. Aziraphale instinctively tucks it closer to his chest; he hasn’t finished with it yet.

“Actually, I think I’m meant to help you.”

“Of course, silly me.” He relaxes. “I’m just browsing, I’m quite alright, thank you.”

“What?” She shakes her head. “I don’t work here.”

“Then I’m not sure I understand.”

Out of her pocket she pulls a gleaming silver dagger.

. . .

Crowley shivers when he steps into the infernal file cellar. This place has featured in more than one of his nightmares over the centuries. The dim lights flicker incessantly, making it impossible to read any of the smudged texts without getting eye-strain. There are rows upon rows of filing cabinets, mostly mislabelled, some exuding odd smells, and not all containing something as harmless as files. Towering stacks of paper teeter on every available surface, waiting to dole out papercuts or bury the next hapless demon to walk by. Most file clerks are accustomed to shredding files. In Hell, it is not uncommon for the reverse to be true.

Fortunately, there are demons whose job it is to manage it all: squirrelly, hunch-backed, miserable creatures with permanent ink stains on their fingers and plasters all over their hands. When Crowley arrives, he expects to be kept waiting for hours while an imp tracks down the file he requested. Instead, Dagon comes out to meet him immediately.

“That was fast—”

“You wasted a trip, Crowley.” Dagon’s hands are on their hips, their lips pursed around a mouth full with too many teeth. The flickering lights reflect off the silver scales dimpling their face. “It’s not here.”

Crowley squints at them. “What do you mean it’s not here? You’re the Lord of the Files, all the files are here.”

“Well, this one isn’t.”

The silence stretches out and Crowley remembers that Dagon is also the Master of Torments. Crowley grits his teeth and manages to turn it into a smile. “Then where is it?”

Dagon sighs dramatically and walks away. Just when Crowley is wondering if he’ll have to do something violent to get what he came for, Dagon returns with a clipboard. “Looks like it was signed out a couple days ago.”

Crowley stares at them, boggling at the odds of that. “By?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Because I only want to look at it for a few minutes and maybe this demon is willing to share.”

Dagon grins, flashing their shark-teeth. “Ligur has it. He doesn’t like sharing.”

Crowley’s shoulders slump. “Right. Guess I’ll be back next week, then.”

Dagon snickers, air whistling between their teeth, while Crowley makes for the exit. The moment Dagon has turned away, Crowley makes a left, heading for the offices. He saunters through the cubicles, dodging scurrying imps and bumping shoulders with shuffling workers. He grimaces and brushes down his jacket.

He keeps a lookout for any of his superiors as he strolls towards Ligur’s office. He can’t sense Ligur inside, so when no one’s looking, he zaps the lock and slithers in. The room is small, most of the space taken up by a battered desk and a stained chair. There’s a water leak in the corner and the carpet reeks of mildew. There is also a pile of papers on the desk, the topmost file open to a familiar looking map.

“What do you have this for, you nasty lizard?” Crowley mutters, bending to take a look.

As Crowley flips through the report, his first thought it that he’s got the wrong file. Brow furrowed, he flips the cover to check the file number, which matches the one he requested.

“What the…”

The file is dated 3004 B.C. What could possibly still be relevant from the Flood that caught the attention of both the archangels and a duke of Hell?

Hunching lower, Crowley begins scanning the document, eyes pausing on ‘damned souls’ and ‘hybrids’ and ‘human possession’. There was an experiment, apparently, during the Flood, that Crowley has never been told about. A deal was made with the humans caught in the rising waters, their lives in exchange for their immortal souls. The humans who agreed were…modified…with infernal power, given the ability to survive the floodwaters.

Crowley’s eyebrows rise as he reads, his lips curling in disgust. The creatures were supposed to be easier to possess, but the demons who tried found them impossible to control, overwhelmed by their bloodthirst. Then funding was cut and the whole project was abandoned. The creatures were locked in a concealment circle and left to their own devices.

They could have died out – they were part human, after all – but Crowley’s pretty sure that no one ever followed up to check. Heart in his throat, Crowley’s eyes jump back to the study’s population size.

“Oh, fuck.”

Hotspot of demonic activity is the understatement of the century. And Aziraphale is heading there alone.

The sound of approaching footsteps echoes through the door. The doorknob jiggles.

“ _Oh, fuck_.”

. . .


	3. Chapter 3

The young woman pulls a dagger from her pocket and Aziraphale steps back, holding up the book like a shield.

“This is for you.” She holds the weapon, blade pointing to the floor, in the air between them.

“Why, I—”

“I know it sounds crazy, but it’s for your own good.” She holds the dagger closer. “Take it.”

Humans are generally odd, but this is bizarre even for them. Tentatively, Aziraphale slips the book back on its shelf and reaches his power out to the young woman, trying to get a sense of her. When he feels the magic surrounding her, he gives a little start, eyes widening. “You’re a witch!”

She smiles grimly. “And you’re not human. But you’re important. I don’t know why yet, but you are.”

It is very rare that Aziraphale reveals his angelic nature to humans. Rarer still that they figure it out on their own. “I beg your pardon, I don’t know what you possibly mean by—”

“It’s your aura. Its – it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

Aziraphale has nothing to say to this. The dagger still hovers between them, so he slowly reaches out and takes it from her. “What am I meant to do with this?” The knife is a solid weight in his hand. It feels warm and powerful and _old_. It’s the type of weapon to have been passed through a family for generations, collecting magic and personality from each owner.

“Protect yourself. You really shouldn’t go, but I know you won’t listen.”

Aziraphale is never quite certain how to act around humans like this. Humans who _know_ things. “I have a very important task ahead of me.”

All she does is nod and step aside. He can feel her eyes on him as he leaves the bookshop.

He tucks the dagger into his travelling bag and sets off down the street. It’s already afternoon, so he tells himself to get a wriggle on and heads for the boats again.

If Crowley were here, he wouldn’t let a tour guide stand in the way of what needs to be done. Between his confusion about his orders and the oddness of meeting a witch, Aziraphale finds himself wishing Crowley could have joined him. He would be able to make sense of it all. At the very least he would have a witty comment to improve Aziraphale’s mood.

No matter. Aziraphale has a job to do. He doesn’t hesitate as he walks down the dock to the unsupervised boats. No one looks his way. When he reaches the end of the dock and the boat floating there innocently, he feels a twinge of guilt. He very much disapproves of rule-breaking.

“Come now. It’s for the greater good.”

He miracles an appropriate sum of money into the owner's bank account, then manages to tumble into the boat instead of the water, gripping the sides when the whole thing rocks alarmingly. “Goodness!” He really has no idea how to control one of these contraptions. This looks nothing like the sailboat he was on a couple centuries ago. It does, however, have a steering wheel, which is familiar enough.

“Right, um, hello.” He takes a seat in the driver’s spot and places his hands on the wheel. “Turn on, please.”

The boat is empty of petrol, but this is not a problem that occurs to Aziraphale. The boat thus finds its engine starting with a surprised sort of sputter. After the initial shock, it rumbles happily and Aziraphale pats the steering wheel approvingly.

“Wonderful, thank you. Now.” Aziraphale opens his travelling bag and takes out the map, which he places on the boat’s dash. “I would be much obliged if you could take me here.”

With his words, the engine rumbles more loudly, a lever shifts itself, and the wheel turns. The boat begins to pull away from the dock until the rope securing it pulls taught, like a dog pulling on its leash. The horn sounds in annoyance.

“Oh, of course! Apologies.” Aziraphale frees the knot and unravels the rope, grimacing as water splashes his clothes. “There we go, that should do it.”

Free at last, the boat backs up, makes a quick turn, and takes off, cutting through the waves. Aziraphale yelps and grips his seat, ducking his head under the wind screen and scowling at the sea spray.

“I appreciate the enthusiasm!” he shouts over the wind, as the boat judders and skips over the water. “But perhaps a tad slower?”

The boat seems to sigh sadly, but obligingly slows to a less teeth-rattling speed, and Aziraphale settles into the seat. For now, he will enjoy the view and fresh air. Soon enough they will arrive and he will get this job over with. He will deal with whatever demonic presence is making a pest of itself and prove to Michael and Gabriel that he hasn’t gone entirely soft. That he is a capable and worthy angel.

Then he can go home and tell Crowley all about it.

. . .

Crowley’s head swivels, eyes wide, but there’s nowhere to hide in Ligur’s office. The door begins to open and he sucks in a breath. He has no clever excuses for why he is in here, no way of getting out. Lacking any other options, he _shifts_.

An innocuous snake, no bigger than the average garden variety, zips under the desk, tongue flicking anxiously as the floor vibrates with two pairs of heavy feet.

“—blasted lock’s broken again,” Ligur is growling. “I’ve told maintenance to replace it.”

“I’ve still got that bloody leak,” Hastur says. “Can’t keep any papers in there.”

“I’ll be out of this office in a week. Mark my words, I’ll be a prince after this, an’ then I can put in a bad word for you.”

“Eh? What’re you talking about?”

The feet come closer and Crowley retreats further into the shadows, squirming under the gap between the desk and the floor.

“I,” Ligur announces proudly, “helped get an angel terminated.”

“What?”

“Got ‘em sent to a shark pit. Wank wings is gonna be _fish bait_.”

“You can’t kill an angel, Ligur! The Antichrist hasn’t been born yet—”

“No, no, this one was sanctioned.”

“Whaddya mean, sanctioned?”

“I’ve got back channels, Hastur.”

The feet move away from the door and Crowley makes a break for it. Off like a shot, he slithers out from under the desk, little more than a black streak as the door closes behind him. He doesn’t slow down once he’s free, shooting down the hallway, his thin body tucked against the wall.

 _Shit, shit, shit,_ echoes in his head as he zig-zags around feet and dubious damp spots, making for the exit like hellhounds are after him. This is so much worse than Crowley feared. It’s one thing for Aziraphale to be heading into a dangerous situation alone. It’s another thing entirely for him to be heading into a _trap_. A trap conspired by both Heaven and Hell. He should have known; the odds were too unlikely that Ligur would just _happen_ to have the file at the same time that Aziraphale got the assignment. Some sort of colluding is happening between Ligur and the archangels, which means Aziraphale’s life is at risk.

_And I let him go alone._

He shifts back to his human form when he reaches the escalator, nearly tripping over the stairs in his haste to run up them. He bursts out into the street and jumps into the Bentley. He should have stolen a weapon from Hell before leaving, but he’s not wasting any more time by going back. He has no idea how far Aziraphale has gone, or if he’s too late already. Crowley can’t even let himself think of that possibility, or the terror will eat him alive.

. . .

The boat propels itself for an hour before something in the water starts to change. There is a very…spooky feel to the area.

“Slow down a moment, won’t you?” Aziraphale requests, face prickling with the wind. “I think we’re almost there.”

Ahead, the water appears clear and innocuous, but carried on the wind are the first strains of a haunting melody. He turns to check behind them, looking for the source, where water stretches in all directions. They’re so far from land that it is no longer visible. He comforts himself with the reminder that he does, in fact, have wings.

At that moment, something truly _wicked_ rushes over him and he shudders. He whips around to face the front and gasps.

Where seconds before was empty water, there is now a small island, though the word island is possibly too generous. A scattering of rocks is more apt.

Aziraphale fumbles for his bag and pulls out the dagger. He doesn’t like the feel of this place _at all_. They’ve entered into a containment circle and something has been trapped here for a very long time.

The boat’s motor cuts off so he can better hear the singing, which sounds like dozens of voices, but also only one, drifting through the air, pressing in on him from all sides. Aziraphale shivers at the sound, at the way it melts into his mind like the sweetest, most terrible temptation.

Aside from the few times Aziraphale has heard Crowley crooning along to the radio, demons, as a rule, do not sing. They screech and hiss and growl and snarl, but no truly Evil demon sings. Aziraphale has always figured they lost the ability when they Fell.

But this being, whatever it is that has been hidden in the middle of the ocean, is Evil. And singing. Aziraphale has no idea what he is up against.

“Go on, now,” he whispers, patting the side of the boat. “Just a little further. Nice and easy.”

The motor starts up again, and the boat slowly approaches the little island. The closer they get, the stronger the pull of the music. As an angel, Aziraphale is immune to its effects, but he is nonetheless aware of its hypnotic properties. It is simultaneously the most beautiful and dissonant song he has ever heard, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

Bowing his head, he whispers a few words to the dagger, blessing it with holy power. He hopes he won’t have to use it, but he is very glad for it all the same.

“Hello?” he calls as the island gets closer. Hidden in every crevice and cave, something dark and hungry watches his approach. The water near the shallows flickers and splashes strangely. Then, the motor sputters and then stalls, leaving the boat to drift with no sound but that melancholy singing. “If you would please reveal yourself, perhaps we can get to know one another?”

The singing stops. The silence is almost worse, and Aziraphale shivers. He feels hunted, a fish caught in a net.

Around the boat, the water ripples, shadows lurking beneath the surface, circling. He is beginning to suspect that there is more than one demon here.

“Come now,” he says lowly, getting to his feet. “Can’t we talk?”

The water splashes and Aziraphale’s breath stops, ice crackling through his veins. He watches as a set of long, clawed fingers creeps up and over the edge of the boat, followed by a pair of sunken, jelly black eyes that bore into him from a hairless head. More water ripples and drips and another set of fingers curl over the edge of the boat. Then another, and another, until the entire boat is surrounded by skeletal, amphibian creatures. Their skin is a sickly, translucent white, as if the water has leeched out the pigment, and Aziraphale turns slowly, taking in their flat, soulless eyes.

“Do you understand me?” he asks, his voice shaking only a little.

The creatures burst into whispers and excited clicks, their bald heads swivelling. As they pull themselves further out of the water, Aziraphale can see that their grinning mouths are crammed full of shark-sharp teeth. The sight is distracting enough that it takes him several moments to realize that he understands what they are saying.

It’s a language he hasn’t heard since he was in Mesopotamia five thousand years ago, but he remembers enough to catch ‘kill’ and ‘hungry’ and ‘eat’. The boat begins to tremble, but the words give Aziraphale pause. Demons, like angels, don’t get hungry. Aziraphale eats because he enjoys it, not because he has to. Just as a demon might kill with its teeth because it enjoys it, not because it feels hunger.

Demons don’t sing. Demons don’t get hungry.

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale breathes. “You poor things are human.”

Something scratches at his back and Aziraphale jumps. One of the creatures has pushed itself up and out of the water, its clawed hand outstretched and mouth a predatory rictus.

“Stay back!” he orders, but with a chorus of clicks the entire pack surges out of the water. The motor bursts into life and the boat flies forwards, repelling several of its attackers and nearly throwing Aziraphale overboard in the process. One of the creatures has managed to pull itself into the boat and is now dragging itself towards Aziraphale. Aziraphale takes a moment to gape at its bottom half, which doesn’t look like a tail so much as legs that have been melted together with sulfuric acid and poor imagination. He raises the dagger in front of him just as the creature hisses and swipes, recoiling when the blade gouges a red line along its palm.

Another one screeches from behind him. Aziraphale turns, dagger ready, but hesitates at the last second, unable to bury the weapon into a being that is, in some small part, still human. He falls to his back as the creature lands on top of him, jaws snapping in his face. Getting his feet under him, Aziraphale manages to kick the thing off and over the side of the boat. He scrambles up and, with a surge of heavenly power, expels the first creature from the boat as well.

Panting, Aziraphale grips the wind screen as the boat propels them wildly through the water, following an erratic path to avoid the creatures diving and jumping for the rudder. One of them has managed to get its claws into his arm, and he bemoans his torn jacket sleeve being steadily stained by his blood. With a sigh, he strips out of the jacket – mending that would just be frivolous – and uses a miracle to heal the wound.

Nothing happens.

Frowning, Aziraphale takes a closer look at the lacerations and tries to heal them again, to no effect. The edges of the wounds are gold and, when Aziraphale looks deeper, he finds not only his corporation injured, but his very essence, too. As if a demon has gouged his true self.

“We need to get out of here,” Aziraphale shouts over the wind and the motor and the screeching. The boat makes a sharp right around the little rock island, heading out for open sea. Aziraphale grips the seat and tries to ignore the burning in his arm.

Gabriel and Michael must have no idea what really is contained here. There is no way they could expect him to destroy the beings here on his own, especially if they knew it wasn’t a demon but some sort of demonically mutilated humans. He will simply go home and request reinforcements.

It’s at that moment that the boat jerks and careens to the side, as if bouncing off a solid wall. Aziraphale tumbles onto his side in the boat, hissing as he lands on his injured arm. As he watches, the steering wheel continues turning to propel them away from the island, only for the boat to rock back by an invisible power, forcing the boat to travel along a circular perimeter.

Leaning over the side, Aziraphale can make out the containment circle’s demonic sigils flickering and dancing like lights in the water and realizes how truly fucked he is.

Thumping and metallic shrieking fill the air and the boat rocks violently. The floor under Aziraphale’s feet shudders and bends alarmingly. They’re attacking the underside of the boat.

A clawed hand smashes through the floor, scrabbling for his ankle. Aziraphale manifests his wings and takes to the air, dagger in hand, as the creatures swarm the boat once again. He propels himself up and up, away from the water and the grasping hands, until he hits a ceiling.

He cries out, wings flapping hard but unable to gain height. He is trapped. It’s not a containment circle, but a dome.

One of them explodes out of the water, teeth gnashing, arms reaching for him, and Aziraphale can only dodge to the side, unable to get any higher. He is the dragonfly and they are the flying fish, jumping and snapping at his feet.

Trapped, wounded, and outnumbered, Aziraphale comes to the realization that passing Michael and Gabriel’s test is no longer his greatest concern. If he can’t get out of the containment circle, he could very well die here.

Oh, Crowley will never forgive him.

. . .

Anathema spends the next hour in a little sea-side café nervously not eating her sandwich. Agnes’s prophecy, true to form, is vague enough that Anathema’s not sure what she’s waiting for. She’s fairly confident she’ll recognize it when it comes, or at least she _was_ certain. The longer she waits the more concerned she becomes that she has missed something. Which means that an Angel is going to fall and a Fallen Angel is going to bring about the end of the world.

Her bouncing leg is making the table rattle. She forces herself to stop.

She checks the prophecy for the sixth time, and is starting to regret she didn’t try harder to stop the white-haired man with the gold aura from going off alone. She’s starting to suspect that Agnes was being literal when she spoke of Angels, which throws a whole different light on the ‘bird cage’ thing. It feels like she’s cramming last minute for an exam, the way she’s been brushing up on her spells for containment circles.

Her studying is interrupted when a hulking, black, vintage car comes careening around the corner and stops with a suddenness that seems to defy physics. The owner apparently doesn’t take care of it, going by the shattered headlight and numerous dents and scratches on the hood and sides. A man with red hair and sunglasses throws himself out of the car, which is in a ‘no parking’ zone, and heads straight for the docks.

As far as Agnes’s ‘screaming metal carriage’ goes, Anathema figures this is it. She stuffs her book in her bag and darts after him. “Wait!”

He doesn’t wait, stomping down the dock while people jump out of his way. His aura is red, which reassures Anathema that she has the right person. It’s also spiking erratically with anxiety. “I need to borrow your boat, it’s an emergency!”

Hiking up her skirt, she runs after him. “That’s not my boat, but I can help you.”

He doesn’t even spare her a glance as he jumps off the dock into an empty fishing boat. “Normally I’m all for encouraging theft, but I’m not bringing a human with me. Go steal a different one.” He starts to unravel the rope tying the boat to the dock and she grabs the end of it. He snarls at her and tries to tug it free.

“I know your friend is in trouble and I know you won’t be able to save him without my help.”

For the first time, the man looks at her. His sunglasses have slid down his nose and at the sight of his eyes she gasps. What strikes her is not their odd colour or even the deformed pupils, but rather the overwhelming fear and desperation that shines out of them. He probably doesn’t mean for her to hear when he quietly says, “I always save him.”

She glares, the rope taut between them. “You want to take that chance?”

For a second his face crumples, and then he’s pushing his sunglasses back in place and, with a single tug on the starter, the 7.5 horsepower motor starts without complaint. This is extremely unusual for the historically finicky motor, which normally requires a lengthy priming, a few sharp thumps, and at least ten minutes of false starts before sputtering reluctantly to life. “Get in,” he snaps. “You’re not allowed to get killed or Aziraphale will never let me hear the end of it.”

She throws in her bag and gets in after it, struggling not to get tangled up in her skirt. As soon as she’s sprawled on a bench, the boat takes off, attracting shouts as the owner realizes what they’re doing. She ducks down, out of the spray of the water, clutching her bag to her chest as the docks get further and further away.

The wind is howling and the motor is whirring desperately. She’s pretty sure boats like this aren’t meant to go so fast – the boat certainly knows it isn’t meant to go this fast, but with its throttle in a demon’s grip it’s got enough of a survival instinct not to complain. She has to be shout to be heard.

“Listen, when we get close, you’re going to have to stop the boat and go without me.”

“Having second thoughts already?”

“No, but if we both go into the circle there’s no way any of us are getting out.”

His head tilts to spare her a glance. “Who _are_ you?”

“Anathema Device. Witch.” She holds out her hand. He glances at it and away. He grumbles something that sounds like ‘Shadwell’ and ‘fired’.

“Crowley. Not a witch.”

She rolls her eyes and lowers her hand. “So, I’ve been doing some research about this circle. I think that everything inside of it is linked to Hell – so, try not to die. Once I’m close enough, I’m fairly certain I’ll be able to break it.”

“Fairly certain?”

Her throat hurts from all the yelling. “Call it ninety percent.”

“And what happens to the nasty buggers in there once you break the circle?”

She pushes her hair out of her face only for it to whip back immediately. “I don’t know.” She doesn’t even know what the ‘nasty buggers’ are. Agnes didn’t mention anything like that.

“Terrific.”

They continue on in silence after that. She can tell he – Crowley – is stressed out of his mind, going by his white-knuckled grip on the motor’s handle, his pale face, his gritted teeth. He seems like kind of a jackass but she feels bad for him all the same. “I gave him a dagger. Your friend.”

His head whips to face her, his teeth bared. “You saw him? And you let him go?”

She scowls back at him to cover a twinge of guilt. “As if I could have stopped him. Besides, the prophecy said to give him a weapon, so I gave him a weapon.”

Crowley’s shoulders sag. He turns away. “Ah, so it’s Written, then. Of course it is.”

The boat jumps even faster, the wind shrieking, and she holds on for dear life.

She casts a quick tracking spell, to see how close they are. Soon enough, she can feel the malevolence of the circle radiating through the air, reaching out and tearing into her. She groans and covers her ears with her hands. It sounds like some sort of animal feeding frenzy, a cacophony of piercing screeches. But buried in the ruckus is the sweetest melody she has ever heard and she falls to her knees, resisting the urge to throw herself in the water to get closer to it. She knows an occult singing spell when she hears one.

The boat comes to a stop and then there are hands tugging at hers. She shakes her head, but Crowley easily overpowers her. As soon as the inhuman melody touches her ears she jerks forward, willing to do anything to get closer. “Let me go! Stop!”

“You stop!” Then he’s jamming something in her ears, swearing at her when she squirms and fights. 

Everything goes quiet.

She sags and he lets her go. Shaking, horrified at her reaction, she sees Crowley twist to pull a long wooden oar from the inside storage pocket, gripping it like a sword. Then, a pair of black wings burst from his back.

Anathema yelps and cringes out of the way, watching with wide eyes as Crowley is hoisted up in the air by the wind. He looks down at her, snaps his fingers, and beats his wings hard. He disappears with a ripple as he crosses the circle’s perimeter.

Closing her mouth, she pushes herself off the floor of the boat, which rocks gently in the water. She takes several calming breaths, shoves the earplugs in deeper until all she can hear is her pounding heart, then opens her bag and begins pulling out her tools.

Time to get to work.

. . .


	4. Chapter 4

Crowley thought he knew terror. As a demon, he was pretty fucking familiar with terror. Turns out, the terror that he knew was a soft bunny with a tendency to bite compared to the slavering hellhound that has hooked its claws into him now. Nothing is quite as gut-clenchingly horrific as racing to save your best friend from cannibalistic demon-human mutants.

It’s a blessed relief when he hears the frenzied screeching. He can’t see anything but water, but he can feel the Hellish power oozing out of the circle and knows that Aziraphale is somewhere nearby, trapped in some monstrous melee. Thank Satan it isn’t a sated quiet instead.

Securing the boat to ensure the human doesn’t drift off, he spreads his wings and plunges into chaos.

The moment he passes the circle he nearly loses a leg to what looks and sounds like a bear trap but is actually a pair of teeth. The hybrids are thrashing in the water, jumping out like demented dolphins, climbing on the rocks to claw at the air. It’s like Hell’s idea of Sea World, if the guests were used as bait. Once he’s got his bearings, he spots Aziraphale, and nearly loses his other leg in his distraction.

Aziraphale is missing his shoes, his trouser bottoms are torn, and scratches criss-cross his feet and ankles, which drip blood and ichor. He’s missing his jacket and favouring one arm, while the other slashes and stabs a dagger defensively. His wings beat slowly, exhaustedly, barely keeping him above the churning water, where there is a whirlpool of teeth and claws and dead black eyes.

All this because of Hell’s budget cuts.

“Angel!” Crowley cries, and takes great pleasure in smashing one of the monsters over the head with his oar.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale gasps, sounding close to tears. “What are you doing here?”

Crowley beats his wings to join him. He once spent a whole week straight playing wack-a-mole at an arcade and is finding the muscle-memory very useful at the moment. “I’ve come to save you, you pillock!”

Crowley can’t spare the focus to look at him, but now Aziraphale definitely sounds like he’s crying. “You shouldn’t have come. Now we’re both stuck here!”

It’s tempting to wack Aziraphale about the head. He’s so relieved Aziraphale isn’t dead he just laughs a bit hysterically instead. “Right, like I was going to leave you to your fate.” He smashes something vaguely human-looking in the face and tries not to feel bad about it. “I brought a witch to help.”

There’s a flash of concentrated divine light and one of the creatures falls, hissing, face blistering, back into the water. “I noticed.” The circle is like a one-way mirror – they can see out, but no one can see in. “She knows how to break demonic circles?”

“I didn’t exactly check her resume!” He swings at one of the buggers eyeing Aziraphale’s feet.

“Oh, do be careful, dear, they’re part human after all.”

“Are you kidding me?” he screeches incredulously. “Is that why you haven’t smited them all yet? These piranhas are trying to turn our toes into appetizers!”

“They’re stuck here,” Aziraphale grunts and another creature falls with a splash, “as much as we are. It’s not their fault that they’re hungry.”

“Hell’s sake, angel!” He tucks his legs out of the way of a particularly insistent bugger.

“I’ve been trying to get to the rocks. I thought I saw a sigil there that may be an emergency escape button.”

“Or a doorbell to Hell.” He looks at the small rock island covered in the monsters. He adjusts his grip on the oar. “Well, let’s go, then.”

Together, they manage to beat back the demonic horde, Aziraphale apologizing incessantly. Every time they knock one off, another two drag themselves back on, claws reaching and teeth gnashing. They won’t be able to keep this up for long. “What do you make of it?” Crowley grunts, swinging his oar and wondering if he should take up cricket.

“I…I think it may be the source of the circle’s power. Oh, my.”

“What? What?”

“Well, it’s glowing. It wasn’t doing that before.”

“Our witch friend?” He glances out at the boat floating outside the circle, where Anna-whatever is doing something witchy with a pendulum.

“I certainly hope so. I am getting sick of people trying to eat me.”

Crowley snorts and swings his oar. There is a satisfying _crunch_. “Ten points for Gryffindor.”

“Watch my back for a moment, won’t you, dear?”

Crowley bites his lip, head swiveling as more of the little monsters climb up on all sides. They’re like cockroaches – inexhaustible and impossible to kill. “I got you, angel.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale tucks his wings and kneels on the rock. A creature lunges for his side and Crowley jabs it in the throat with the paddle. Aziraphale hisses.

“What?!”

“These demonic sigils burn like the dickens,” Aziraphale complains, and then the circle in the water erupts into blood red light, shooting into the sky like a knock-off Bat-Signal. Out on the boat, the witch jumps to her feet.

All around them, the monsters cease their attack, folding into themselves, keening in apparent agony. Crowley watches, horrified, as their tails split up the middle, morphing into shriveled legs. Black ink pours out of their eyes and needle-teeth fall out of their mouths.

Aziraphale looks like a battered knight with the sword in the stone, his hand on the dagger which he has stabbed into the sigil. He lifts his head and gasps. “What’s happening to them?”

“I think the curse is lifting.”

The screeching sounds more like human cries now. Red light explodes out of their eyes and mouths while the circle surges brighter, the rock under them rumbling. Too late, realization grips Crowley by the throat.

He turns, arms out, too slow. “Azira—!”

Aziraphale looks at him, eyes wide, still kneeling on the sigil—

Everything goes red. An explosion of infernal energy throws Crowley backwards, tumbling through the air. He has enough presence of mind to disappear his wings before he hits the water, hard. It’s numbingly cold. The silver lining is that the wind is knocked out of him, so there’s no chance of him breathing in sea water while he fights to orient himself.

“—do you start this damn thing? Shit! Crowley – your friend!”

Flailing, Crowley manages to get his head above the water, his ears ringing from the blast. He blinks water from his eyes, realizes he’s lost his sunglasses, and sees Anna-something trying to row with one oar. Her face is a mask of frustration, which Crowley finds amusing in a concussed sort of way, but then he sees what she’s rowing towards.

He looks like a drowned bird, unmoving, white wings askew and slowly being swallowed by the sea.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley doesn’t know how to swim; he’s staying afloat by miracle alone, hissing and spitting as he fights the water to get to Aziraphale. It feels like the entire ocean is between them. It would only be fair, Crowley thought, if there were an upper limit to terror, but if there is, he hasn’t reached it yet, because every second of delay is more agonizing than the last. Being scared makes him angry, and he uses that rage to push him the last couple feet, until he’s lifting Aziraphale’s face out of the water. “Wake up, you idiot, you stupid, stupid angel, _wake up_!”

The witch finally reaches them and together they haul Aziraphale, water-logged wings and all, into the boat, which doesn’t dare tip. She holds out her oar to pull him in afterwards, and he collapses by Aziraphale’s mangled feet. His wings are splayed over the benches, broken feathers everywhere.

“He really _is_ an angel.”

Crowley ignores her, shuffling around the immense white wings to get to Aziraphale’s head. His shirt is burned away, his chest and neck an angry, blistered red. Crowley can smell the burnt flesh. His eyes are closed, lips blue, and it’s not like they technically need to breathe, but their corporations aren’t designed to have water in their lungs either.

“Don’t you dare fucking die,” he snarls, lifting the angel by the shoulders so he can twist him to the side. He rams his hand into Aziraphale’s back, right between his wings. “Not after I – came all this way.” Aziraphale’s head flops and Crowley wants to laugh at how ridiculous he looks except it wouldn’t be laughing. He doesn’t know if a demonic miracle would be a help or a hindrance at this point.

“His aura…” the witch says, voice uncertain, “it doesn’t look very good.”

“Then _do_ sssomething about it!” he bellows, and she flinches back, eyes wide. He turns away from her, slaps Aziraphale harder on the back.

She stands and carefully maneuvers so that her feet are on either side of Aziraphale’s legs without stepping on his wings. “Lay him back down.”

“Why?”

She glares at him and kneels. “ _Do it_.”

He does it. Shuffling back, he shoves his hands in his wet hair and pulls hard, watching as she bends and presses her lips to Aziraphale’s. “What are you doing?”

Her shoulders move with her breaths and then she places her hands on his burnt chest and starts to push. “Do you know the song _Stayin’ Alive_ by the Bee Gees?”

He nods. Swallows hard. Tries not to choke. “Yeah.”

“Sing it.” She presses her mouth to Aziraphale’s again and Crowley wonders if this is some odd witch voodoo. Her hands are back on his chest. Demons aren't supposed to sing. “ _Do it_.”

He does it, voice wobbling and cracking on every other word, but he sings. He grips the strong bones in Aziraphale’s wings, face wet, eyes stinging with salt water, and butchers _Stayin’ Alive_ while the witch kisses Aziraphale and tries to break his ribs.

“Come on,” she grunts, on the fifth round, and Aziraphale has apparently had enough, because he jerks, eyelids fluttering and water bubbling out of his mouth. Crowley inhales, sharp and painful, and Anna-something tilts Aziraphale onto his side and he coughs and coughs, water just pouring out of him. She lets Crowley take over then, sitting back as Crowley pulls Aziraphale against his chest.

He bows his head and laughs painfully into Aziraphale’s sodden hair.

“It’s alright, my dear,” Aziraphale croaks, voice wrecked, which makes Crowley laugh harder, until his eyes spill over and his throat hurts. “Goodness, I feel atrocious.”

“You nearly drowned to death,” the witch tells him.

“She,” he hiccups, “she did sssome witch ritual on you.”

“It was CPR,” she confirms. “I can’t believe I performed CPR on an angel.”

Aziraphale’s eyes crack open. “It’s always so awkward when they figure it out.”

“Want me to wipe her memory for you?”

Aziraphale pats his hand clumsily. “No, thank you, dear. She did save my life after all.”

. . .

After Aziraphale has managed, with Crowley’s help, to get his exhausted wings more or less in order and tucked into another dimension, he goes about cataloguing the damage to his corporation. His feet and ankles are torn to shreds, as is his arm, and his chest is an angry red colour, stinging unpleasantly.

“What happened?” he croaks around his sore throat.

Crowley hasn’t stopped touching him since he woke up, but at least he is no longer weeping, for which Aziraphale is unspeakably grateful. He has never before witnessed anything as excruciating as Crowley sobbing into his shoulder and he hopes he never has to again. At the moment, Crowley is pale and bare-eyed and gingerly holding a towel around Aziraphale’s bleeding feet. Aziraphale is too drained to give healing another shot, and Crowley is convinced a demonic miracle will only make it worse.

“The circle blew up with you right in the middle of it.” His eyes squeeze shut. “Shoulda dragged you away faster.”

“You couldn’t have known, dear. And the…the creatures?”

“In Hell. Where they belong.”

Aziraphale frowns. “How did they get there in the first place? Crowley, they must have been there for _millennia_.”

“Here,” the witch says, holding out a little pot of ointment. “This should help with the burns.”

“Got it.” Crowley gently lays down Aziraphale’s feet and takes the pot from her hand.

“Thank you, dear girl. I never did get your name.”

“Anathema Device.” She holds out her hand and Aziraphale shakes it.

“Aziraphale. I really have quite a lot to thank you for. If you hadn’t found me in that – oh!”

Crowley, his ointment-covered fingers inches from Aziraphale’s chest, flinches. “What? I haven’t even touched you yet!”

“My books,” Aziraphale moans, awash with a new wave of pain. “The little devils attacked my boat. My books were in my bag, which is probably at the bottom of the sea by now.”

Crowley hums sympathetically, then gently, so gently, applies the ointment to his red skin. The initial contact burns, but then the ointment produces a wonderful cool sensation. Aziraphale sighs in relief.

“These books?” The air tingles with a demonic miracle and then Crowley is presenting his bag with his free hand.

Aziraphale gasps, relief and delight and adoration sweeping through him. This is the second time Crowley has saved his books and Aziraphale falls in love with him all over again. Crowley is smiling at him shakily, a poor imitation of his usual devil-may-care grin, but Aziraphale beams.

He opens his bag eagerly, checking to make sure everything is intact – not even a single water stain. Even better, Aziraphale has a chocolate croissant in there that he was saving, and now he eagerly takes it out of its paper wrapping. His immediate instinct is to take a bite, but he pauses. “Would either of you like some?”

Crowley scoffs while Anathema shakes her head from where she is seated at the front of the boat, watching them avidly. So, Aziraphale happily munches on his croissant while Crowley slathers him in ointment. By the time he’s through, he’s feeling embarrassingly pampered.

“Thank you, both of you. I feel nearly as good as new.”

Crowley scowls. “Don’t talk shit, angel.” His fingers linger on the sensitive skin of his neck.

“Well, I certainly feel much better. Quite well enough to head back, at any rate.”

“I couldn’t get the boat to start—”

Crowley snaps his fingers and the motor roars to life. “Wanna drive, witch girl?”

. . .

Anathema has only driven a boat a few times, but it comes back to her in no time. She takes it slowly, mostly because she doesn’t want to aggravate Aziraphale’s injuries, but partially because Crowley glares at her like he might bite if she jostles his patient in any way. He’s wearing a new pair of sunglasses, but she remembers what his eyes look like and is pretty positive that he’s a demon.

She’s still boggling over all the crazy things she’s witnessed today. Not least of which is the tender way the demon cradles the angel, when all of her theistic knowledge is telling her they should be mortal enemies.

By the time they pull up to the dock it’s almost evening and there are police officers waiting for them. “Shit.”

Crowley growls in annoyance. “It’s a good thing that circle basically super-charged me, the way I’m using up miracles today.” He snaps his fingers and the police very calmly turn and walk away.

Anathema boggles at that too. “How did you do that?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

She pulls up at the dock and ties up the boat, then looks at her passengers. The three of them are an odd-looking bunch: damp, war-torn and, in Aziraphale’s case, half-dressed. “Agnes didn’t warn me of this part,” she muses.

“Agnes?” Aziraphale enquires, sitting up with a grimace. Crowley has a hand on his back.

“Agnes Nutter. My great, great, great, great, etc. grandmother. She was a witch too.” She bends to gather her bag.

“What, angel?”

Aziraphale is staring at her wide-eyed, mouth open. His voice goes up an octave. “You – that – I mean – you couldn’t possibly mean – are you referring to Agnes Nutter, as in the author of _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter?_ ”

Bemused, she nods. Out of her bag, she digs the old, battered book, and passes it to Aziraphale’s reverent hands. “You’ve heard of it?”

“Have I _heard_ of it?”

Crowley groans. “You shouldn’t have done that. You’re never going to get it back now. He’s like a book addict, you know. Books of prophecy especially.”

He strokes a hand over the cover. “Born in 1600, exploded in 1656, the last true witch burned in England.” He looks up at her in awe. “This is the holy grail of prophetic books.”

Anathema shrugs. “You’re welcome to read it sometime. I’ll be staying in London for the rest of the week. I could…drop it off later.”

“Well, we’re heading back to London, too. Would you like a ride?”

She imagines sitting in a car with an angel and a demon for several hours and shudders. She needs some time alone to come to terms with everything she’s seen today. “Oh, no, thank you. I already have a train ticket. How about you give me an address or a phone number or something?”

. . .

Aziraphale insists on walking, but Crowley, not insane, ignores him, carrying him bridal style to the Bentley. Witch girl follows behind, carrying Aziraphale’s bag.

“You don’t have to do this,” Aziraphale grumbles, but he’s pale from blood loss and tight-lipped with pain.

“Oh, right, of course,” he says scathingly. “Sorry, officer, my friend’s crawling after me because his feet were shredded by _mutant Swiss army knives_.”

Aziraphale sighs. “When you put it that way… Good Lord, what’s happened to your car?”

It’s covered in parking tickets, but Crowley’s pretty sure what’s caught Aziraphale’s attention is the tragic state of its paint and body. “Look, I had to get here fast, alright? Nothing a quick miracle can’t fix. See?” Crowley glares the paint and metal into pristine condition, and the parking tickets into puffs of smoke. “Good as new.”

“ _Holy shit_ ,” the witch breathes.

“Goodness, you didn’t hurt anyone did you?”

“Not the ones who moved out of the way.”

“Crowley!”

“Kidding! Jeez, angel, what do you take me for?”

They get Aziraphale into the passenger seat, his bag in the back, and they say their farewells, witch girl promising to call them in a couple days. She turns to leave and Crowley swings the passenger door shut before taking a step after her.

“Anathema.”

She looks at him, eyebrows raised. “Yes?”

Crowley lowers his sunglasses. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

It’s not a casual thing for a demon to say, and she must realize it. Her eyes widen. “Oh, you don’t have to – I mean, helping was just the right thing to do.”

“All the same. You saved his life. So, if you need something, let me know.” When she looks, she’ll find his phone number in her contacts. “Also. If you tell anyone about us, you will not enjoy the consequences.”

She nods and hurries away.

“What did you say to her?” Aziraphale asks suspiciously when he slides into the driver’s seat.

“Just a thank you.”

“Oh. That was…decent of you.” He’s still pale, his shoulders tight, clothes ruined and hair disheveled. His corporation is like swiss cheese, his true self leaking out of him. It makes Crowley’s entire being quiver to see him like this.

“Let me see your arm,” he urges, and Aziraphale holds it out without hesitation, his eyes blue and trusting in the sunset. Crowley gently unwraps the strip of towel, revealing four deep lacerations on the meat of his forearm. They’re a bloodred mixed with heavenly gold, the skin darkening to a poisonous black at the edges.

“I can’t heal them,” Aziraphale admits. “I’ve tried. I think there was just enough demon in them to make things…nasty.”

Crowley’s hands shake. “I can – I can try, but what if I make it worse?”

Aziraphale huffs. “I don’t think that’s possible. If you do, I’ll hardly blame you.”

With a nod, Crowley holds his breath and bows his head to press his lips to Aziraphale’s wrist.

Aziraphale gasps, his fingers curling, but doesn’t pull away.

Crowley lets every bit of love in him pour into Aziraphale through their skin, urging the darkness that has latched onto the angel to release him. Aziraphale moans and his arm jerks. Head snapping up, Crowley looks at his face, which has lost some of its tension. The wounds on his arm are closed, the skin raised and black, but whole.

“How does that feel?”

“Much better.” Aziraphale looks hopeful. “I don’t suppose—”

Crowley coaxes with his fingers. “Swing ‘em up.”

Gingerly, Aziraphale lifts his legs and places his feet in the cradle of Crowley’s arm. The towel around them is stained red and gold, and Crowley unwraps it carefully, hissing at the sight. If they leave his feet like this, Crowley would be surprised if he ever walked again.

He doesn’t need to kiss Aziraphale to heal him, but he does so anyway, pressing his lips to each shin. Aziraphale stiffens and then sighs blissfully as the damage fades, leaving a black hatching pattern on his skin. His toes wriggle happily and Crowley strokes his fingers over the raised scars before moving closer, pressing his lips to Aziraphale’s bare shoulder. The burns are more persistent, and Crowley shudders with the effort of trying to banish them from Aziraphale’s skin.

“You’ll exhaust yourself,” Aziraphale protests, leaning away.

Crowley squeezes his wrist and gives up, lightheaded, pressing his forehead to Aziraphale’s arm. He’s breathing heavily, the air still tinged with the scent of blood. Aziraphale’s wrist twists in Crowley’s grip until their hands are clasped. When Crowley sits up and Aziraphale puts his feet back down, they’re still holding hands.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispers.

Crowley disappears the bloody towels, starts the engine, then has to release Aziraphale to put the car in gear. They get onto the main highway in silence, where Crowley only drives twenty over the limit. He’s tired, and jittery, and the more he thinks about how close he came to losing Aziraphale, the tighter he grips the steering wheel.

“Crowley. Do you understand what happened? What were those terrible creatures?”

“An experiment,” Crowley says grimly. “I went to Hell after you left, to look into it. During the Flood, a demon made a deal with some of the humans who were going to drown. Those _creatures_ were the result.”

Aziraphale is quiet as he absorbs that. “What a terrible price to pay. The gift, as it were, was worse than the initial punishment, really.”

“You’re right, they should have just gone to their deaths like good, obedient little humans.”

The following silence is strained. “Are you angry with me?”

“No,” he says stiffly. He is angry. He’s angry at Ligur for telling the archangels about that cursed place. He’s furious with the archangels for sending Aziraphale there. He’s frustrated with himself for too many reasons to count and, yes, he’s a bit angry with Aziraphale, because he knows how he’s going to react to what Crowley has to tell him.

“It’s not like I could have known how dire the situation would become,” Aziraphale says defensively.

“Michael and Gabriel did.”

“Of course they didn’t. They never would have sent me alone if they knew what that demonic activity was really about.”

Rage simmers in his stomach. “That map they gave you? It’s an exact copy of the one in Hell’s files. I overheard Ligur talking about it – he gave your bosses that information.”

There’s a pause. “You’re lying.”

Crowley grits his teeth. “When have I ever lied to you?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“I’m not lying. The archangels got their information from a duke of Hell, and they sent you there.”

“Ligur must have tricked them somehow.”

He barks a laugh. “I’d like to know how.”

“I’m sure there’s been some sort of misunderstanding.”

“I know what I heard.” At best, the archangels have been criminally negligent with Aziraphale’s life. At worst, they were trying to get him killed.

“Well,” Aziraphale’s voice is high, upset. “Well. When I submit my report, I’ll ask them to clarify everything.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure they’ll be completely transparent with you about their underhanded dealings with the Enemy. Speaking of which, you’re not going to include _me_ in your report, are you?”

Aziraphale makes a wounded noise. “Obviously not. And you and I don’t have _underhanded dealings_.”

“How do you know? Apparently, all I do is lie to you.”

“Crowley, you can’t just expect me to believe that _Michael_ and _Gabriel_ are – are _colluding_ with Hell.”

“I don’t see what’s so hard to believe. We have an Arrangement.”

“That’s different! You – we – I mean – it’s just different.”

“It’s different because we’re _friends_ , angel.” He turns his head to look at Aziraphale, who’s face is pinched. “And I – fucking,” _love you more than life itself_. He looks back at the road, speeds around a blue Ford. Aziraphale yelps and grips his seat. “—give a shit about you. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I – I – I had noticed.”

“Oh, good,” Crowley says with forced blitheness.

“Obviously I – I mean…”

“What?”

“We should listen to some music.”

They listen to a Handel CD that plays insinuating Queen songs the rest of the way home.

. . .


	5. Chapter 5

They pull up to the shop after dark, the tension thick between them. Anathema’s ointment has worn off and Aziraphale’s burns sting in a way that is impossible to ignore and extremely unpleasant. Now that they’re back, it occurs to him that he is still barefoot, his shirt is little more than rags, and the bottoms of his trousers appear to have been attacked by a small army of rats.

Also, the lights are on in his bookshop.

“Someone’s broken in,” he exclaims, gripping the door handle when he sees silhouettes moving about through the windows.

“Woah, hold on.” Crowley parks the car around the corner from the shop, out of sight of the front door. As soon as they stop, Aziraphale makes to get out, but Crowley stays him with a hand on his arm. “Wait! Those are angels in there, I can smell them. And you don’t even have shoes!”

“Yes, I can tell they’re angels, thank you. They must be looking for me.” He looks down at his feet, which are now scarred with black lines criss-crossing every which way. They’re quite a fright to look at, and Aziraphale frowns. “I have extra shoes in the shop, somewhere.”

“Just come back to mine.” Crowley’s hand is still on his arm, covering his other new set of scars. “You can hunker down there until they leave. I’ll buy you some shoes.”

“That’s very kind of you, but I really must figure out what they’re doing waiting in my shop.”

Crowley makes a frustrated noise. “Fine. Let me just—” He removes his hand and snaps his fingers, and Aziraphale finds his outfit restored. He is wearing socks and shoes, his trousers and shirt are mended, and his vest and jacket are back in place. The shirt and vest have been left unbuttoned so the fabric doesn’t irritate his burns, and when he reaches into his pocket, he finds his bow tie and pocket watch, safe and whole. It makes him feel almost entirely ship-shape.

“Oh, _Crowley_.” Aziraphale feels his eyes water, gratefulness and love filling him to the brim.

“Shut up.” Crowley looks away, out the wind screen. “Look, you can go in, but I’m staying here with the engine running and if I notice anything suspicious, I’m coming in, got it?”

Aziraphale smiles and nods. He grabs his bag from the back seat and makes his way to his bookshop. He has to resist the urge to sneak in on tip-toe – it’s his bookshop, after all, he’s not the one trespassing. Outside the door, he buttons up his shirt and vest, gritting his teeth against the pain. A little burn is no reason to neglect one’s standards, after all. Then he steps inside.

“—rid of half the material objects, of course. But once it’s cleaned up a bit it will be perfect for a base of operations.”

“Gabriel?” Aziraphale says, taking in the scene. Gabriel, Michael and a third angel are standing in the middle of the shop, looking around at his books. The third angel is turning over a copy of _Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management_ in his hands with a perplexed expression. “Michael? What are you doing here?”

The book falls to the floor with a thud and Aziraphale flinches. The three of them whirl to face him with more shock than can really be warranted considering it’s _his_ shop. Gabriel looks like he’s seen a ghost – if angels were disturbed by such things – and Michael stares with wide eyes. The third angel just frowns.

“Principality Aziraphale?” They look at the two archangels. “I thought you said he was d—"

“Imamiel,” Michael says sharply. “Why don’t you return to Heaven?”

The angel, Imamiel, looks even more confused. “So, I’m not cleaning the place up?”

Gabriel pats them on the shoulders and steers them towards the door. “Don’t worry about it. We need to have a chat with Aziraphale, here.”

Aziraphale steps aside to let Imamiel pass. Once they’re gone, Aziraphale looks to the archangels, starting to feel sick to his stomach.

“Aziraphale,” says Michael. “We weren’t expecting you back so soon.”

Aziraphale may be naïve and he may be hopeful, but he is not stupid. He can tell that they weren’t expecting him back at all. “Well.” He smiles thinly. “Here I am. Can I help you?”

“Let me guess,” Gabriel says, with the kind of look Crowley gives to anti-vaxxers. “You couldn’t find the place. Do you need help reading the map?”

“No, thank you, I had no trouble finding the containment circle or the creatures in it.”

Gabriel and Michael glance at each other. “You went _inside_?” Gabriel asks.

“You destroyed the demons?” Michael steps closer, eyes roaming over him from head to toe.

_Demons? So you knew there were more than one?_

It feels like the bookshop floor has fallen out from under him. Like the roof has caved in. There is something rancid in his gut, tasting of hurt and fear and betrayal in the back of his throat.

“Well, I – you see – I was about to start writing my report – but, um—"

“Spit it out, Aziraphale.”

He thinks fast. So, his bosses tried to kill him. He doesn’t know why, but unless he convinces them otherwise, it seems likely that they will try again. That makes him think of Crowley, waiting anxiously outside. He would be devastated if Aziraphale were gone.

Presumably, they see him as some sort of problem or threat, to be dealt with secretly and in a way that gives them the benefit of the doubt. If it weren’t for the fact that his entire worldview has just been shattered, he would be flattered to be involved in such a high-stakes drama.

Well, he’s always wanted to practice his acting skills. He has put quite a lot of effort into making himself appear as unthreatening as possible, but that doesn’t mean he actually is. He’s quite skilled at scaring off those pushy mafia leaders, after all, and doesn’t see why this should be much different.

“Perhaps I had best show you,” he offers, and removes his jacket, unbuttons his cuff, and rolls up his shirt sleeve. On the pale skin of his forearm, his new scars are violent and shocking. Michael and Gabriel both gasp at the sight. “The demons were numerous and fierce, but they were no match for my heavenly might. In fact,” he steps towards them, a pleasant smile on his face, “I quite enjoyed cutting them down. I wish there had been more of them to destroy. You know, I’ve been cooped up in this bookshop for so long, I’ve quite forgotten the taste of infernal blood. I practically _gorged_ myself today. I ought to thank you.”

With every step that Aziraphale takes, the archangels step backwards, eyes wide. Michael’s voice comes out much higher than usual. “Cut them down?”

“With what sword?” Gabriel exclaims.

His gosh-darn flaming sword. That's what this is all about. Either they believe he lost it, which makes him a liability, or they believe he gave it away, which makes him a traitor.

“You know I don’t have it,” he realizes. “And you sent me off anyway. You wanted me to fail!”

He can tell by their expressions that he is right. They’re nearly panicked when they look at each other.

“Why – why – you – that’s not very nice!”

“You _lied_ , sunshine. You did the Wrong thing, which means you deserve to be punished!”

“Why, I…I didn’t _really_ lie. I never _said_ – but anyway, the jokes on you! Because I didn’t even need my flaming sword. I destroyed all those demons with my bare hands and I _liked_ it.”

“You’re mad,” Michael squeaks. “You could be planning treason for all we know. We can’t afford to have any rogue angels with the Great War nearly upon us.”

Aziraphale lets his smile go hard. He manifests his snow-white wings, spreading them out to their full, war-torn glory. “I’m as rogue as it gets. Not even a demonic containment circle could hold me. You think _you_ can kill me?”

Behind him, the bell chimes and Aziraphale turns to find Crowley in the doorway. The first thing he notices is that Crowley’s sunglasses are absent, his demonic eyes on full display. His teeth also appear sharper than usual, giving the impression of fangs. “Thought I sssmelled angel-ssstink in here,” he hisses, smiling sharply. “What’s this I hear about angels killing other angels? That’s the kind of thing my lot would do.”

For a moment, Aziraphale just stares at him, flabbergasted. Then, Crowley glares at him and he gets the hint. “Foul fiend! Begone from my shop!”

Crowley shrinks back, glancing around Aziraphale’s wing to look beseechingly at the archangels. “Can I help? We demons have been trying to kill this bastard for _millennia_.”

“You _have_?” Gabriel sounds strangled.

Out of sight of the archangels, Crowley beckons with his hand. Aziraphale frowns.

“He’s a total _maniac_ ,” Crowley continues. His unseen hand points emphatically at Aziraphale, then his fingers make a running motion, then he points at himself. “Can’t believe he hasn’t turned on _you_ yet.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale at last understands. Flaring his wings, hands fisted, he charges at Crowley. “Begone, demon, or perish!”

With a very convincing yelp, Crowley vanishes out the door. Once he’s gone, Aziraphale turns on the archangels, who stand cowering behind one of his book shelves. “He’s snapped,” Michael says shrilly.

“I told you he’s been on Earth too long.”

“And you!” He stalks towards them. “I grow tired of you loitering in my bookshop! This is a place for reading, not politics. You’re both lucky I don’t have my flaming sword.”

“We’re your bosses, Aziraphale!” Gabriel says weakly.

“What kind of boss tries to kill their employee? I suppose that makes _this_ self defense!” Two steps is all he manages before they disappear with a panicked _pop_.

In the sudden silence, Aziraphale sags. His wings disappear. He rolls down his sleeve and puts his jacket back on. Grimacing, he goes to pick up the book splayed on the floor and places it back on the table in the centre of the room. Its cover is damaged from the fall, and he stares at it mournfully. The bell tinkles again and Aziraphale looks up to see a blurry image of Crowley in the entrance. 

“That was brilliant! You were –” Crowley breaks off when he sees Aziraphale’s expression. “Oh, _angel_ ,” he sighs, voice achingly compassionate and warm.

Aziraphale’s face crumples and, as the first tears fall, Crowley strides towards him and wraps him gently in his arms, one hand holding Aziraphale’s head to his chest and the other between his shoulder blades. Aziraphale clutches Crowley’s lapels, wrinkling the fabric, his chest burning inside and out.

. . .

They move to the couch some time later, when Aziraphale’s breathing is steadier and Crowley is worried that their embrace is hurting him. He finds the pot of ointment that the witch left in Aziraphale’s bag, and goes about reapplying it to the burns while Aziraphale sniffles and stares at the ceiling.

Crowley’s heart aches for him while his gut burns with fury at the archangels, but he keeps his touch gentle. The thought of hurting him any more is unbearable.

“They know about the sword,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley is rubbing ointment on his sternum. “What? How?”

“I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure that’s what this whole debacle has been about. They wanted me to admit that I’d lost it at some point. When I didn’t, they sent me on this job as punishment.”

“Why not just _ask_ you?”

“I imagine they wanted to avoid it going public, for whatever reason. No one can ever agree on how much divine mercy to use. This way, if I told the truth, they could prove that I wasn’t worthy to lead a platoon and assign me to a desk job somewhere, and if I lied, they could just have me killed.”

“Hold on.” Crowley sits back on his heels, balancing with his forearms on Aziraphale’s knees. “What’s this about a platoon?”

“Ah, yes.” Aziraphale looks down to inspect his chest. “I forgot to mention. Apparently, Armageddon is imminent.”

Crowley loses his balance and falls on his arse. “ _What_?”

“Officially,” Aziraphale emphasizes, lips pursed, “this job was for me to prove I was a worthy leader.”

Crowley gapes at him. “How imminent is imminent?”

Aziraphale clasps his fingers in his lap. “They didn’t say.”

They stare at each other, Crowley with mounting dread, Aziraphale with mounting guilt. He remembers, through a hazy, panicked snake memory, that Hastur mentioned something about the Antichrist. “We have to stop it.”

“Crowley.”

“Look, I know it’s Written and, sure, it’s what we’ve both been working towards since the beginning, but, I mean, we can’t let it _actually_ happen!” He can feel his heart rate picking up. “Can you imagine? No more Earth, just endless Heaven, or endless Hell. We’ll never get a decent drink again, for one thing—”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale leans forward on the couch so that he can grip Crowley by the shoulders. “Please, it hasn’t even started yet and I can’t – I can’t think about it right now. Can we just—”

Crowley stares at him, lips parted and eyes wide. “Just what?”

Wordlessly, Aziraphale stands and holds out his hands. Leaving the pot of ointment on the floor, Crowley lets Aziraphale pull him to his feet and lead the way to the flat above the shop. This is the second time that Crowley has been in this bedroom, where a four-poster bed serves as additional book shelving.

“Angel, what—”

Aziraphale drops his hand in order to bustle about the bed, relocating the books to the floor. “I realize you may find it indulgent, but I am quite desperate to have a few hours of quiet to think and find myself reluctant to let you out of my sight. I know you enjoy sleeping and would be very grateful if you would, perhaps, do so here. With me.” He’s standing by the side of the bed, worrying the fingers of his left hand, unable to look at Crowley’s face for more than a second at a time.

Crowley’s heart clenches. Aziraphale has never made such a bold request for something. No excuses, no clever play on words, just plain, simple comfort. “You want to just…lie down together?” he clarifies.

Aziraphale nods jerkily. “If that would be agreeable to you.”

Crowley smiles crookedly. “Perfectly agreeable.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders sag, his face breaking into a smile. “Oh, really?”

“Let me just—” He snaps his fingers and his day clothes have been swapped out for black silk pajamas. While Aziraphale toes off his shoes and strips down to his shirt and trousers, Crowley places his sunglasses on the bedside table and crawls under the covers, sighing as the mattress hugs his tired body. It hits him all at once how truly exhausted he is.

Aziraphale settles gingerly at his side, half propped up against the backboard, his hands clasped in his lap. Rolling onto his side, Crowley reaches out and lays a hand over his, eyelids already heavy. The bed is comfortable and Aziraphale is warm and solid at his side.

“Just, you know, wake me up,” he mumbles, “if you wanna talk or anything.”

“Thank you, dear.” Aziraphale turns off the light.

. . .

He lets Crowley sleep late into the morning the next day, as his thoughts ease from a dizzying maelstrom to a calm, clear pool. By eleven o’clock he has, if not entirely untangled, at least come to terms with all that has happened in the past twenty-four hours.

He cannot trust the archangels, that much is clear. Obviously, they’re willing to work with Hell to get their dirty work done. They know, somehow, that he does not have his flaming sword, and that he has lied to them, which means that they will be observing him more closely. If they haven’t figured out his and Crowley’s relationship yet, they will soon. Whether or not there is anyone else in Heaven with his best interests at heart, he does not know. What he does know, is that there is a demon in his bed who loves him very much.

And Armageddon is looming, which is a whole other problem.

They frightened the archangels with their little performance, but he doubts they will leave him alone for long. What he should do, is push Crowley away. He should be firm, and unyielding, and insist that they are an angel and a demon, that they have nothing in common, and that it would be best if they went their separate ways. He doubts, now, that even that would be enough to save them. Not with six thousand years of friendship behind them.

Plus, if yesterday was any indication, Aziraphale knows that there is nothing he can say that will make Crowley stay away for good. A large part of him, the part that is scared and lost, is very glad of that fact.

If Heaven has an Arrangement with Hell, then Aziraphale sees no reason why he should terminate his Arrangement with Crowley.

He emerges from his thoughts with a new sense of determination. Sunlight spills in through the window, bathing Crowley’s hair in fiery light. Crowley’s arm is thrown around his waist, his face mashed into Aziraphale’s hip, and it feels like Aziraphale’s heart is ballooning to double its usual size.

With curious fingers, Aziraphale draws a line from Crowley’s wrist, up his arm, to his shoulder, and into his hair, which he combs out of Crowley’s face. Crowley twitches and sighs under his touch, squirming closer. His eyelids flutter when Aziraphale traces the shape of his ear and the mark of the snake on the side of his face. With a series of snuffling sounds, he emerges from slumber, his eyes blinking open, brilliantly gold.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale murmurs, brushing back his hair.

Turning his head, Crowley takes stock of their positions, tension returning to his muscles. It’s quite lovely watching him wake up.

“’lo, angel.” Slowly, his arm retreats and he props himself up on one elbow. Aziraphale’s hands settle in his empty lap. “You okay?”

Aziraphale nods. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Mm-kay.”

“About us.”

Crowley’s eyes widen. He pushes himself up so that he’s sitting cross-legged, facing Aziraphale. “Oh?”

It’s not a very dignified position to be in, sitting in bed, but Aziraphale sits up straighter anyway. “In a way, we’re on our own side, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, course we are, angel.”

“A lot has changed in the last twenty-four hours, but you have been here for me the whole time. I’d be dead if not for you.”

Crowley manages a string of unintelligible noises.

“My point, dear, is that we are better together than apart, and I think, whatever is coming, we had better face it together.”

Crowley appears to be having trouble breathing. “Yeah.”

“Well, then. No more pretenses. You must know how I love you.”

Crowley freezes, still as only a snake can be. “Say again?”

Aziraphale huffs good naturedly. “I love you, you wily old serpent.”

A smile slowly slithers across Crowley’s face. “I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“Good to know that my affections are so—”

Crowley strikes out and grabs his hands. “I love you more than anything, Aziraphale.”

“Oh,” he breathes, heart fit to burst. “It is quite nice to hear it out loud, isn’t it?”

With a wild laugh, Crowley lifts Aziraphale’s hands and presses a fervent kiss to his knuckles. Aziraphale leans towards him, wanting to be closer still, then hisses in pain as the skin on his chest pulls.

Crowley’s eyes widen. “Shit, sorry, don’t move.” With that, he scrambles off the bed.

“Where are you going?”

“Be right back!”

With a sigh, Aziraphale waits. He takes off his shirt, which is terribly wrinkled, and inspects his blotchy, reddened skin. His corporation is made of sterner stuff than the typical human and already the burns are looking better than yesterday. Still, it smarts. 

When Crowley returns, he’s carrying a tray laden with tea, scones, and fruit, and the nearly-empty pot of ointment. Charmed, Aziraphale watches him place the tray on the bedside table, within easy reach, then accepts his mug.

“Thank you, my love,” he says, and Crowley’s hand briefly faulters as he reaches to pick up the ointment.

He grumbles something that might be ‘you’re welcome’, then perches on the edge of the bed. “I think I can help a bit more, now that I’ve slept.”

So Aziraphale sips his tea and munches on a scone with jam, while Crowley soothes the burns with the cool ointment and flashes of demonic miracles. He looks so focused, yellow eyes serious and bottom lip sticking out, as he works to ease Aziraphale’s pain, as if this is the most important task he has ever undertaken. Once the tea is gone and the pot is empty, Aziraphale cups his face and kisses his forehead, the bridge of his nose, and finally his lips. Crowley shivers and kisses him back, soft and curious.

“Is this alright?”

Crowley hums an affirmative and kisses him again, his fingers burying themselves in Aziraphale’s hair. “Soft,” he sighs.

Aziraphale has never found the human body to be sexually desirable, a quirk he has always ascribed, perhaps incorrectly, to his being an angel. As they rid each other of their clothes, he looks at Crowley and identifies features that he finds beautiful, but he does not feel that magnetic pull that so many humans appear to. However, the desire for closeness and intimacy he has felt, and as they explore each other with fingers and lips, Aziraphale’s body is awash with pleasure and comfort. Crowley spends ages on his feet, mapping out the scars which appear to be there to stay, then moves onto his ankles, his calves, his knees, his thighs.

It feels good, and Aziraphale’s body responds naturally. He’s half-hard, low-level arousal buzzing through his veins.

When Crowley reaches his hips, licking at his iliac crest, he pauses with his fingertips in the crease of his groin. “Want me to…?”

Aziraphale sighs in contentment, running his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “If you like.”

“If _I_ like?”

“I don’t mind, either way.”

Crowley hums and moves on, nibbling at Aziraphale’s belly, kissing his way up Aziraphale’s arm, licking the side of his neck so that Aziraphale giggles and squirms. He’s hard against Aziraphale’s hip, and when they return to kissing, Aziraphale takes him by the waist and urges him to straddle Aziraphale’s legs. Like this, Aziraphale can better touch him, and he takes his time massaging his back, his buttocks, his thighs, enjoying the shape of him in his hands. The more Aziraphale touches, the quicker Crowley’s breathing becomes, little moans slipping out of him. Intrigued, Aziraphale kisses his sternum and drags his hands down Crowley’s stomach, feeling the muscles jump under his skin.

“Would you like me to touch you here?” he asks, his hand hovering over Crowley’s erection. It’s red and eager, dewy at the tip.

“Please,” Crowley hisses, hands buried in his hair, his hips swaying in Aziraphale’s grip.

Aziraphale touches him, exploring the velvety hardness of him, enjoying the way it twitches and pulses under his fingertips.

“Angel,” Crowley whimpers, his forehead pressed to Aziraphale’s hair.

Aziraphale brings his palm to his mouth and wets it with his tongue.

“What are you – oh, fuck, that’s hot,” Crowley gasps, his knees squeezing Aziraphale’s hips.

Pleased, Aziraphale wraps his hand around Crowley’s erection. “Is this to your liking, my dear?”

“Nng—” Crowley’s pelvis seems to thrust automatically, pushing himself into Aziraphale’s grip. “Little tighter, _yeah_ , just like – oh, sweet J – just like that.”

With a smug little smile, Aziraphale strokes him in earnest, twisting his wrist every other stroke in a way that makes Crowley quiver and grip spasmodically at his arm. Aziraphale can tell he’s getting close by the pitch of his voice and the shortness of his breath, and makes encouraging sounds into his ear.

“Angel,” he says urgently, “wait, I’m gonna – don’t wanna – on you.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale eyes the tip of his erection, projectile motions sketching out in his mind. “Not a problem. Just sit back on my thighs, dearest.”

With a strained noise, Crowley obliges, his rump settling on Aziraphale’s thighs, his hands falling back to balance on Aziraphale’s shins. He’s flushed from his face down his chest, his vertical pupils blown so wide they’re nearly circular, his torso a long line of heaving ribs and tensing abdominals.

“You look delightful,” Aziraphale says honestly, and resumes his ministrations.

Crowley makes a pained noise, looking down the length of himself to where Aziraphale’s fingers are wrapped around him, his hips pushing up into Aziraphale’s pumping grip.

“Beautiful,” Aziraphale sighs, and watches the exact moment Crowley starts to come.

His jaw goes slack, his eyebrows arch, and his eyes roll back. In Aziraphale’s hand, his erection pulses hard and spills onto Aziraphale’s stomach, wrist, and hand. When he hums in approval, Crowley’s head tilts back and he groans, his gluteal muscles flexing against Aziraphale’s thighs and more come dribbling out of him.

“ _Fuuuuck_ ,” he grinds out, his hips moving in small jerks.

Aziraphale gentles his grip but doesn’t let go, tracking the way Crowley softens as his breathing slows. Crowley’s head tilts forward, his expression utterly blissed out. It makes Aziraphale want to hold him close and never let go. If it weren’t for his wretched burns he would.

“Aziraphale,” he breathes, soft and awed.

“Was that good?” Aziraphale asks innocently, releasing him to settle his hand on his upper thigh.

Crowley laughs and curls forward to kiss him, sloppy and uncoordinated. “You know it was."

Aziraphale wriggles happily and miracles away the unpleasant feeling of Crowley’s cooling spend.

“Can I do anything for you?”

Aziraphale considers. He’s mostly hard, a pleasant ache between his legs, but he feels no urge to do anything about it. Based on how much Crowley enjoyed himself, he thinks he might like to try it, some day, but for now he is perfectly content. Well, mostly content. “I’m a bit peckish, actually.”

Crowley hums thoughtfully, presses a kiss to his forehead, and sits up. “Fortunately, I came prepared.” He twists and plucks a bunch of grapes from the tray.

Aziraphale reaches, but Crowley lifts the grapes away from him.

“Ah, ah. My turn.”

So Aziraphale, with minimal protest, lets Crowley feed him grapes by hand, feeling a bit ridiculous and very loved. Once the stem is bare, Aziraphale insists that they get up.

“I do have a report to write, you know.”

“You can’t be serious,” Crowley complains, sitting on the edge of the bed while Aziraphale gets dressed.

“It will be half fiction at least,” he concedes, doing up his trousers. “But it can’t hurt to try to scare them off a bit more.” Aziraphale frowns the wrinkles out of his shirt, then slips it over his shoulders. He looks longingly at his vest and jacket, but decides against them seeing as he’s leaving his shirt unbuttoned anyway. Crowley’s miracles and the ointment have helped, but the skin is still sensitive and raw.

Crowley stands, miraculously dressed all at once, and kisses him, one hand on his waist and fingertips against his jaw. “I can help,” he offers. “I have a great imagination.”

And he does. Between the two of them, they finish the report in two hours, Crowley sprawled on the couch and waxing poetic as if reciting a gothic fairy tale, while Aziraphale writes at his desk, incorporating his less ludicrous ideas. It gives the impression that Aziraphale is much more formidable than he really is, and practiced at breaking containment circles to boot. When it’s complete, Aziraphale seals the report in an envelope and miracles it straight to Gabriel’s desk. Despite everything, he feels an instinctive twinge of guilt for lying.

Crowley lies on his belly, elbows on the arm of the couch, head in his hands. “What are we going to do, angel?”

He shakes his head, uncertain. “Keep our ears to the ground. Wait for Miss Device to contact us. Hopefully we can discern something useful from her book of prophecies.”

Rolling off the couch, Crowley comes to loom over him, his own guardian demon. He holds out his hands and Aziraphale takes them, smiling at this small gesture that is available to them now. The pain of Heaven’s betrayal pales in the face of this pure sense of belonging.

“We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

With Crowley’s hands in his, Aziraphale knows it’s true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a ton of fun to write. I'd love to hear your thoughts! You can also find me on [Tumblr!](https://notesoflore.tumblr.com/)


	6. Fanart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An illustration I made of Crowley on the way to rescue Aziraphale.

Originally posted on [Tumblr.](https://notesoflore.tumblr.com/post/617785975961223168/crowley-to-the-rescue-fanart-for-the-fic-an)

_Securing the boat to ensure the human doesn’t drift off, he spreads his wings and plunges into chaos._

_The moment he passes the circle he nearly loses a leg to what looks and sounds like a bear trap but is actually a pair of teeth. The hybrids are thrashing in the water, jumping out like demented dolphins, climbing on the rocks to claw at the air. It’s like Hell’s idea of Sea World, if the guests were used as bait. Once he’s got his bearings, he spots Aziraphale, and nearly loses his other leg in his distraction._

_Aziraphale is missing his shoes, his trouser bottoms are torn, and scratches criss-cross his feet and ankles, which drip blood and ichor. He’s missing his jacket and favouring one arm, while the other slashes and stabs a dagger defensively. His wings beat slowly, exhaustedly, barely keeping him above the churning water, where there is a whirlpool of teeth and claws and dead black eyes._

_All this because of Hell’s budget cuts._

_“Angel!” Crowley cries, and takes great pleasure in smashing one of the monsters over the head with his oar._

_“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale gasps, sounding close to tears. “What are you doing here?”_

_Crowley beats his wings to join him. He once spent a whole week straight playing wack-a-mole at an arcade and is finding the muscle-memory very useful at the moment. “I’ve come to save you, you pillock!”_


End file.
